Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax
by Elfreida
Summary: AU - Timing is everything. And the fluttering of a butterfly (or a door being unlocked in the right place at the right time) might have reprocussions far beyond. In this case, what if? What if the timing was different? What story would unravel of Sherlock's being, for once in his life, early?
1. A Sign of Two

**Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax (And Cabbages and Kings)**

**A Sign of Two**

**JOHN**

Around him were the sounds of the hospital. The ebb and flow. Regularity interspersed with an undercurrent of watchfulness and the occasional spike of urgency. Mostly it was calm. The lights were low, and there was solace in the gloom. Peace in the relative quiet and distant noises.

His eyes, of course, were for the pale man lying prone on the bed.

The man with his ridiculous mop of dark hair and hairless chest (John was half-convinced he waxed – a _dull_, _ordinary _thing to do, but his vanity certainly wasn't in doubt). There was an IV drip. A lack of other equipment and procedures made their absence noted, however. This was a poor re-enforcement to the knowledge that it could've been a lot worse, but it helped all the same. The only blood was in the slight staining on the bandages swaddling his head. A little in the grazes on his face; his hands. No burns or broken bones. Even his ear drums hadn't been too badly damaged. Just a hell of a headache.

John breathed slowly in, then out through his nose. In and out. A cracked skull was nothing, in the end, to what he had expected to find. He swore then and there to never take for granted _ever again _that Sherlock always (always) danced the line between dangerous and deadly. Genius and madness. Living and dying. But it wasn't enough for the man to simply draw close to that line, no, he actually _crossed _it. _Over and over._ His hand shook, _trembled_, where it rested against his knee and he clenched it instead against his mouth. It wouldn't stop. He knew why. It didn't help. In the slightest.

_Brrr. Brrr._

_Mary._

It took far longer than it should've done to regain the muscles of his hand and reach for his phone. Operate the buttons. Read the message. _Do you want me to come and meet you? _He'd only sent the first one ten minutes before. He blearily realised he must have woken her up (it was going for quarter past four) and, though they'd only _met_ six months previous, she was offering to up and come out to him at some ungodly hour of the morning because of the Work.

It should've been nothing to do with her – a separate world entirely – and she certainly shouldn't have been willing to put up with the Alfred Hitchcock circus that was Sherlock's day to day. Yet she did. And it was. She was always there at the end, taking him out; asking him how the adventure went. Even when that wasn't the case, when the last thing he wanted was to make more of an effort for her, somehow she knew. She came to Baker Street and made tea and brought food. Sometimes she brought a book, sometimes a kind sympathy for whatever discomfort they'd braved. Whatever injury John was patching up.

Just being there.

Even Sherlock had accepted her presence, and wasn't that just the most telling? He'd stopped sniping at every single tiny thing. Stopped trying to trick her. Stopped trying to scare her. Stopped even trying to suggest she wasn't good enough (because that's what was between the lines, let's be honest). There had been something different about Mary, undeniably, from the moment she walked into his life (their lives). Little things were different – her tolerance of Sherlock was the elephant in the room, but there were other things. She didn't do things like _pity_ or _simple_. She accepted the Work, even helped when it came down to it. She was very clever. Not that his other girlfriends hadn't been clever per se, but he was liable to forget how devilishly intelligent Mary was. More to the point, she seemed just as much an addict as the two of them; she was just better at hiding it from the rest of the world.

Right pair they were in the end.

And then there were the one or two things that were _different _about Mary (things he couldn't quite put his finger on). Things that lingered just this side of disquieting when he allowed his mind to wonder about them.

He thought of Sherlock. From annoyed to angry to suspicious, at which point he was downright vicious. And she weathered every single one. Then suddenly it was _All Fine_. Like flipping a switch. John still caught Sherlock eyeing her occasionally when he thought his blogger wasn't looking – a strange look.

If it were anyone else he would've been angry. Pissed that his best mate was eyeballing his girlfriend, particularly like _that_, but this was Sherlock. Yes, he kept an eye on the looks, course he did. But, other than the finer point that he did, in fact (despite the gigantic prick's antics culminating in his crashing back into John's life only eight months before) _trust_ him, trying to imagine that being a _Sherlockian _motivation just didn't work. He couldn't picture it. No, it was something else. He didn't know what, but it wasn't _that_. Sherlock was free to think what he would. The finest minds couldn't figure out what went on inside his head, and John didn't fancy his chances with this particular mystery.

It worried him for another reason sometimes. But then Mary was _there_ and it all worked out fine. In the end. He was still standing with his phone clutched in his right hand.

_Do you want me to come and meet you?_

This wasn't her world. It _wasn't_.

Yet caught between the two now he was _so alone._

_Yes._

His hand dropped. He stared again at the body on the bed (_not a body, not a body_) and tried to suppress a second attack of spinning panic. It was just so _wrong_, bereft of even the far away thoughts that seemed to hum from him when he disappeared into his Mind Palace. _Yes he needed her – he needed someone! _

His thoughts slid. He felt it. Sliding into the dark, colourless maw that was Sherlock's absence. It took all his will not to smash his fist into the wall just to let the screaming out of his head. He couldn't lose him again. He _couldn't_. Couldn't happen. He survived the last time by bitterness and the skin of his teeth (a bitterness that took a _long_ time to let go of) and then the bastard had flounced back into his life…

He felt naked. Stripped of anger. Barely holding out against the fear.

"Hey." She touched a gentle hand to his shoulder. He'd been stood at the foot of the bed, unmoving as Sherlock, for nearly an hour. He turned and allowed himself the luxury of wrapping his arms around her. She was warm.

"What happened?"

"There was –" he cleared his throat with some force. "There was a bomb. It was all hooked up to stuff in the walls. Sherlock deduced it was the lab assistant, so we went looking for her and then we found it and we were trying to…trying to switch it off."

She rubbed his back as his throat closed on its own

"It was all chemical – amateur – so in the end we were just disconnecting everything as carefully as we could before she could get back; there was no time to call anyone else."

"Didn't you call the police?"

"God – I mean we didn't know she was going to try and blow the place sky high!"

Mary looked dolefully back as he shut down the need to keep shouting.

"Course we called them when we found it, but no one was going to get there in time. Then when I was running round having a shooting match with the woman, Sherlock went back to finish the thing. Self-sacrificing _wanker_."

Mary shut her eyes and leant into his chest.

"It went off?"

"No…no he stopped it taking out half the building. Primary stuff still went off though; gutted her office."

She winced.

"_God_."

"I thought…" he couldn't stop the words climbing out of his throat. _Yes, he'd thought_. He'd felt the explosion shudder through the floor and _he'd thought_.

* * *

**MARY**

"You know, you look remarkably good for someone who _literally_ had something blow up in their face."

The detective stirred, wincing as his head was pulled from its numb stillness.

"Still, it was worth it I suppose." She sniffed dispassionately. "Suspect caught. Mystery solved. Another day's thrills."

The opalescent eyes fluttered shut.

"Helps that you saved about three hundred people."

"Yes."

"And John."

"Indeed."

"Do you mind that you nearly died?"

One eye cracked open.

"My injuries were superficial."

"Yeah. But you nearly died."

"Where's John?"

"Finally convinced him to go and get a coffee." Mary sighed, looking away, and found her eyes drawn back to the arresting combination of razor cheekbones and moon pale skin. He was staring shrewdly, giving away nothing, but she knew better.

"It would've killed him."

He sat up _so _casually; so arrogantly.

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm really not."

He stopped moving, face still stone cold.

"What are you doing here?" He asked disdainfully.

"He asked me."

Not _quite _true, but there it was: the flicker. A number of things chased themselves over Sherlock's face, most of which most people would've been unable to see. She would've missed them if she'd blinked. Never breaking the gaze, she relaxed into the uncomfortable plastic chair and regarded the detective. After a long while, he opened his mouth and inhaled to speak – only to stop at the last second and frown. _Good god, that beautiful brain took quite the knock, didn't it? _she thought as her eyes drifted over the bandages.

"God, I –" She shook her head, façade crumbled completely. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"Oh, is it so hard to believe I care?"

"Why?"

"Because I do."

"Why?"

"Because I want to, you berk." She looked at him again, but this time there was no front, no armour. And wouldn't you know, it was getting easier. More comfortable. _Better_.

"People don't change." He murmured, soft as silk and sharp as the edge of a knife, yet she _had _to laugh. She giggled even as Sherlock looked back with a combination of fury, indignation, disbelief and incomprehension (a lot for one person to show, but he managed it).

John came back with the coffee, eyes softening as he spotted Sherlock awake. And she'd have to have been blind to miss the minute smile he got in return, Sherlock's entire posture both relaxing and shoring as he entered the room. He absently put an arm around her shoulders, but his gaze never moved.

An ache reopened, getting that bit deeper.

It was quite a bit later that they were sitting together in the cafeteria, looking at each other over their mugs (or rather, her watching him try not to fall asleep at the table). She laughed under her breath; gently prized his hands off the china before he tipped it over. He held onto hers, and for a second the ache numbed. He was smiling at her and she felt so safe. She always did with him. Which was a double-edged privilege in the end; something that came with the knowledge that, while the rest of the world fell like water on rock, she was one of the few that had the power to really hurt him. To break him. Enough to bring her to tears the first night she stayed at Baker Street (she never slept away from home).

She'd let him so close to her heart. And he'd let her in.

_First bad move._

No. No it was alright. It was good, him and her.

_Him and her and Sherlock._

The ache returned with a vengeance. How the _hell_ had she found John Watson? Handsome and brave and loyal Watson who, by the way, raced after criminals every other night, took care of the walking death-wish that was the world's only Consulting Detective, and took on the world's battlefield like it was the same drug that tugged her bones even now. She'd found an addict; like her.

_But not like her._

_He_ was the sane one. The one that really, truly, cared. She'd learnt so much even in the short time they'd been together about seeing the _good_ in life. Perhaps because he was a doctor. More likely because he was _John_.

It would be so easy to love him. _So fucking easy. _Too easy. She could empathise with Sherlock completely there.

"Look – go home. Get some sleep, John, you're dead on your feet."

"No way. Mary…I can't. I just can't."

"How about I stay with him?" He frowned, looked intensely at her, smiled, then looked down, sighing as his expression twisted.

"No, you don't have to do that. Seriously, I –"

"Please." She reached further forward and slipped her hands under his chin, feeling the two-day stubble starting to show. His skin was warm over his throat, and her mind wandered naturally at that (his did as well if the sleepy intake of breath was anything to go by). Wrong place…wrong time. She fought from sighing. She could sigh forlornly like a fem fatale on her own time. John smiled and shut his eyes, sagging onto the table.

"Fine. Just…make sure he doesn't escape, okay?"

"I will."

They kissed at the front doors, his hand in hers, and in that scene she could pretend so many things. She could pretend this was who she always was. She could pretend time didn't exist. She could pretend John was hers.

He could've been…_he really could have…_

Then she thought of the strange man still within the walls.

The doctors had come by earlier; John had concurred with their diagnosis that it was probably a hairline fracture in the skull, if that. Lack of other symptoms and an uncomplicated recovery from the initial concussion, including the scalp healing, pointed away from a depressed fracture or further damage to the brain and skull. No surgery necessary. They did, however, want to keep him another night for observation just in case. Also it kept him leaping back into action and bashing it round whilst it was still healing.

She smiled absently as she entered the room. God help her, she _was_ fond of him. She'd liked him from the start, of course: dazzlingly clever, sharp as a tack; complete drama queen. He reminded her of the nostalgia of a world long left behind (the good bits of course). He sat up, picking her out in the harsh lights.

"Looks like it's just you and me."

"Oh the joy."

* * *

**SHERLOCK**

He hadn't thought, in the end. A rare thing indeed (though perhaps not so in days recent). _Had it changed him so?_ Of course it hadn't; that was as preposterous as the thought of John breaking. He hadn't changed.

_Talented liar, AREN'T you SHERLOCK?_

_Get. Out. Get out. Get out get out get out…_

Well, he hadn't had the ghost of a criminal psychopath up there before. He wondered what John would say if he ever revealed how he heard Moriarty speak as if he were in the room. Not that he was ever deceived that it was real, but did it have to be? He heard it at least half as much as he heard John himself (though John's voice was less likely to fuel his nightmares).

_Ooh, and WHAT would Johnny say to those, HMM?_

He slammed the door to His prison shut (sometimes that worked).

What would John say?

_Mild paranoid schizophrenia brought on by PTSD; therapist. Oh, and…eh…it's always about me? Really? You're…having me on, right? You dream about losing me every night? That can't be healthy; you should really see a therapist for that, Sherlock, I can't be _that. _You know I can't. I'm not –_

"Gay, yes I know."

"How often do you do that? When you're alone?"

Mary's soft voice startled him slightly, and he found her staring at him again from the chair. _Slight tea stain under her nail; curling into her warm coat with intensions of trying to settle (not expecting John back) and a flexing tic in her feet; waiting to say something?_

"_What?_"

_Oi! Behave!_

"Look," she leant forward expression strained. "I know you don't like me, never have –"

_Was _that_ the impression she got?_

"Don't like you?" He murmured.

"No. I…I get it, I mean –"

_Apologise. Now._

"Mary, I have a great deal of respect for what you do. And for you." _Close enough. _Mary looked up in genuine surprise, and he realised he might have to revise his analysis of how she responded to him. The woman herself seemed to have lost what she was going to say and merely stared back. After a long time, he looked away to the ceiling and tried not to surrender to the boredom threatening now that the drowsiness was wearing off.

Not that he felt very bored these days either. Years ago, he might have counted it a mercy, but it wasn't pleasant. And not being bored was among other things: the ability to sit still here, the concession to merely have a cup of tea there (he accepted the necessity of mostly making his own now, of course). As said, he should've considered it a mercy. But it _wasn't_. It was…something else. His mind felt full, but not the screaming kaleidoscope of sensory information that otherwise _fuelled _the boredom. It was…

_Numb_ was the only word that fit. Memory. _Physical memory._ Aches and fears and sour adrenaline.

After the nightmares, the effect was even worse.

"Sherlock?"

He'd been staring. Absently.

"Your concern is gratifying."

"What were you thinking about?" He shot her a pained look. "Was it John?"

His eyes narrowed, but she didn't back down. Unfortunately, at her words, his mind produced _John _as if he'd been there all the time. The Sentiment before, the Ache during, the –

_Stop naming them._

"If John is on your mind, feel free to go and join him."

"And leave you alone here? No chance."

"If you must feel obligated to stay –"

"We need to talk."

He blinked blankly.

"We need to talk because..." she seemed to steel herself. "Because if – if I –"

"You're going to leave?" The realisation hit him like a blow to the stomach. But not nearly as much as her next move.

"Should I?"

_Should Mary Morstan leave John Watson? Ex-intelligence operative (at the very least) attempting rehabilitation with a stolen name, yet an honest desire? Intelligent, diligent, protective, encouraging, unassuming, tolerant Mary. Danger and domestic all wrapped up in one attractive, appropriately aged female who accepted _Him.

_Answer: NO._

The word came up and out of his throat. _Why was it so impossible to be selfish where John was involved? _He'd literally thrown himself off a bloody building for that man, and that was _before_ the true knowledge (an eventual acceptance) of _Why_.

"He's happy with you, why should you leave him?"

She fixed him a surprised look through the welling tears.

"Because if we go through with this, Sherlock – if we fall in love and get married and have kids in a little house in the suburbs – if we do, it would be what _I_ want. The life _I_ want."

"The life John _wants_. I don't –"

"John doesn't want what he needs!" She exclaimed incredulously. "Surely you see that? You see everything; you _know_ him. What would happen if I let him fall in love with me?"

Sherlock thought. He cringed automatically.

"Boring. Dull. People."

"Exactly."

"You don't want that either."

She rolled her eyes. Sighed. Stood up.

"But I _do. _I do because…because I _left _that world. _Willingly,_ and that's important, Sherlock, I left on my own _choice_. I loved it; craved it." She shuddered. "I can't even pretend I don't still a bit, but it was _wrong. _It was…"

She was tense, frustrated, absent (genuinely distraught). She was pacing. Sherlock tried to understand how this was for her. It didn't make much sense at all, though she was truly remorseful over what she'd been and what she'd done.

"I need it about as much as you _need_ cocaine."

_Ah._

"And I'm happy with normal. Normal's good. Normal's growing old without the _fear_."

And _that _was something he understood. Thirteen months in the shadows of Moriarty's web had taught him more about fear and exhaustion than anything previous had ever come close to. The dull acid that slowly ate away at excitement, care, passion – things he had learned to value only in their absence as even boredom was consumed, leaving _nothing_.

"I gave up that world _willingly _because I wanted out. Not because I felt obligated or because I felt like I _should _want something else; I _really did_."

"You don't want John to be cornered into giving up –"

He pulled up short. He might joke about it. He might boast about it to Mycroft. He might say it defensively to ward of an unwanted _girlfriend. _But he was being honest. Here and Now. And in that honesty was tangled many things, all of which he was abruptly forced to realise were (distressingly) true.

Mary didn't break the gaze.

"You." She said, voice low and firm. "I don't want him to give up _you_."

"You definitely shouldn't leave him."

"I…can't, Sherlock. It's been good. It really has. But…"

"I don't want you to leave him."

He didn't deserve John. He wanted John to be _happy. Alive _first; _happy _second. He didn't know why or how on earth it had happened, but in eight months this was the conclusion he had been forced to come to terms with. _And he didn't deserve to keep him; not a pathetic, ignorant, uncomprehending, sub-lethal arsehole. _Mary laughed, a sound laced a broken little noise betraying the tears, though she smiled.

A sad, longing smile.

"But you _need_ me to."

He couldn't say anything to that. Didn't know how to deal with it. Someone as _good _as Mary (it didn't matter that she wasn't naturally; that she _tried _and _worked hard _was the same in the end) sacrificing that future for _him_. For John, but also for him. He let her cry out her tears until they both began dozing off again (lack of sleep and a head trauma apparently did that to a person).

"I wasn't joking before, Sherlock. You pull something for real…"

"Don't be a fool." It was unknown waters; he was as close to pleading as he had ever been in his life. _Don't. Don't do this. I can't do this._ "John's stronger than either of us."

"Alright then. If you break him, I'll come back and break you."

He shrugged, still trying to conceive arguments to compel her to stay. An absent thought followed her (completely serious) threat. If he did break John, after all, he'd probably end up doing the same to himself. Because in John's absence, it was inevitability.

* * *

_**A.N: Well, a fix it that sits well in my head with the characters being who they are. I've wanted to play out this little scenareo since watching series 3 and, I have to say, I love Mary as a character (my own wierd headcannon - not in this, this is something else - notwithstanding). Anyway, as you might have gathered, Ahoy Mateys! but I am trying to take to heart the elements of stories I've really liked of this sort of vein. Took effort to avoid it being too domestic. We'll see how it goes.**_

_**Reviews, preciouses?**_


	2. The Science of Illogic

**The Science of Illogic**

**SHERLOCK**

"_Damn it!_"

His eyes flicked to the ceiling. John's phone; probably the concrete dust it had picked up in their escapade to Battersea had finally abraded something vital. He tried to brush smoothly back to the skin sample beneath the microscope. That simple exercise in mental control failed, however, and all Sherlock could (hatefully) think on was the irrationality of his own behaviour around John. Granted, it had always been out of the ordinary, but in the three weeks since Mary announced to John that she was moving to the Peaks, it had gone from inconvenient to simply impossible.

He tried to analyse it; apply reasoning. Question: _why did he still feel such guilt? He had tried to stop it, had he not? He was the cause, but he had made every effort to prevent it; what more could he have done?_

_He's MISERABLE with just YOU, Sherlock. Gotta face facts. He just doesn't LIKE you._

"John cares."

_He doesn't even LIVE HERE! He just CRASHES here after YOU bring him back. Like a cheap CHEAP date…tsk tsk…must hurt…_

"Sherlock can I borrow your phone?"

He didn't look up. Didn't permit himself to stare anymore; as if his access to John Watson was permanently closed off. He didn't know where to go from here. He was at the mercy of his sympathetic neurons whilst being unable to predict hereon in. Would John date again? Ghastly thought. Would they simply settle down again as the Detective and His Blogger?

"Fine."

"…_right_, where is it then?"

"My jacket."

He didn't get up. Frustration and moody grief backed John's narrowed eyes before he rolled them, anticipating the anticipatable, and reached roughly into his chest pocket.

Like normal.

But it wasn't like normal – Sherlock couldn't help the warmth that seeped in when John touched him – and what was normal if nothing Sherlock did, within their established boundaries _or out_, could make John happy again?

He went out. Sherlock finished his investigation into how the degradation of skin cells varies when exposed to different invertebrate populations present in London's diverse environments, diligently compiling his notes as he waited for John to return. Just so he could pretend to ignore him for another few hours. Then repeat.

_This can't go on._

_You owe me more than that, Sherlock._

"But I don't know how!" He clutched his hair in frustration. "Tell me what to do?"

_YOU drove off the best thing that's ever happened to me, YOU can find a solution._

"This _isn't_ my area!"

_All the facts are in front of you, brother mine; it's almost childishly obvious._

"Fuck off, Mycroft." _And since when did he let _him_ waltz round his brain?_

_These are feelings, little brother. For once…I'm afraid…your logic will not help you._

Cases. He'd thought cases fitted the bill. Normality and a fix of highly distracting, highly stimulating adrenaline. But it hadn't worked; if anything John had been more irritable than before.

_But you got to SEE him; poor Sherlock. Poor poor virgin. He came. He CAME back – GET IT?_

"_Shut. Up!_"

"Sherlock?"

John. Standing at the door whilst he shouted into the hands covering his face. And yet it was difficult to concentrate on him. In the end, he said nothing (not that John would ever have accepted that, angry or otherwise). He cared too much in general. Doctor and all that.

"Look, just – don't you dare try and brush this off! You've been acting weird ever since Mary left, and you know it! Just. Tell me what's wrong."

It was an effort at calm; a return to reason. But reason had no home with Sherlock anymore.

"Sherlock!"

Thoughts snapped into place and he opened his mouth at the same moment as standing.

"Tea?"

"_Tea? _Tea – that's all you've got to say?"

_It's what Mary did when you got all in a strop, _trotted automatically onto his tongue, but for some reason even that had stopped being possible. All he could do was raise his chin in a sham of aloofness and turn to do exactly that. The creak of wood and upholstery followed John dropping hard into his chair, expression not necessary. All he could think was _Mary should be making the tea. Mary should be here. Mary should be here._

Days passed. He wasn't sure how many anymore. He only knew with certainty was that Mary was no longer there partly because a) she didn't want even a half-life of what she had been (which, after a fashion, was understandable, but overshadowed by point b) and b) because she'd cared enough about the _both _of them to come to the conclusion that _he _needed John more than _her. _

There were three problems with this.

Firstly that there was no room in that statement accounting for which of the two of them _deserved _John. Secondly she had not considered which of them _John _needed (becoming more obvious with every passing minute). And thirdly, this conclusion (which was itself…admittedly…_excruciatingly_ true) did not intrinsically support her actions as it did not give him an innate knowledge of how to _keep_ John.

She knew how. _She knew._ Two months after he'd returned and John had barely deigned to refuse his attempts to contact him with actual words: it was _Mary_, in the end, who suggested John let go of his anger. _She_ who encouraged the gradual process of John forgiving him.

_A process which would now never complete._

_And THEN it'll be just YOU and ME! THINK of it!_

"Stop." He said it so softly, he didn't know whether the words had made it out at all. John didn't hear. He was talking in the kitchen. Sherlock wanted to _do_ something – shoving Mary's new address under his nose and telling him to stop being an idiot would be a good start. He wanted to at least _look at him. _But there was so little feeling in his skin, he couldn't move, much less respond.

"So there's no milk in the fridge. _Again. _Quite fancy going down to the pub, though. Been long enough and I could get more on my way back." There was a pause. Then suddenly John was stood before him. Sherlock had no memory of his having crossed his peripheral vision, and all he could do was stare. The doctor's expression was forbidding at best, and it could easily tip into the full rage that looked like it'd been building.

"That's it then?" His mouth was a thin white line that filled Sherlock's whole world. "The one girl who I thought I could make it with gives me the elbow and you decide _now_ is a good time to give me the cold shoulder? Because, I dunno, maybe having a break up like this I would've liked my _best friend _to at least _acknowledge my existence!_"

Falling. Things were falling, thick and fast, and he knew absolutely no way to stop them.

"Anything? For fuck's sakes, just _talk to me!_" He bellowed. "_Fuck it_."

Then he was gone. The detective rose to his feet, not thinking of anything at all, and found, an arbitrary amount of time later, the sensation of sheets beneath his cheek. He expected Moriarty's voice, but to his surprise it wasn't the first.

_You idiot._

Not sad. Not angry. Cool and reasonable.

_Best friend? Mary had made that much progress…and still it was remarkable. Best friend? He…had been John's best…had been…_

It was probably then that the tears started pooling in the bridge of his nose, only to drip silently onto the cotton beneath.

* * *

**JOHN**

John wanted to get totally smashed. That's what you did, wasn't it? After getting dumped? Except that Greg and Mike had already shouted him a sympathy drink. As had a couple of buddies who weren't really _buddies_ but who just needed a good excuse to go on the town pretending they were his friends. Add to that the fact that alcoholism and his family mixed about as well together as processed chicken and e-coli _and _that he was a doctor for Christ's sakes! Drinks were fine, but drinking like _that_ was in the top ten of about the most _stupid _things someone could possibly do to themselves. Out of things that were easy and legal, anyway.

So this was how he found himself walking back from the pub: too sober by half and all the more irritable for it. Tired. And feeling more keenly the undercurrent of loneliness pervading his life in Mary's absence than when he'd gone out.

But it wasn't just _Mary's_ absence, was it? No – somehow (and this was the bit that made no sense whatsoever) he'd managed to lose _both_ of them.

That thought was enough to make his breath vanish.

Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong, and at first John had thought it was the mess his life had become. The debris of good times frozen in the ice of familiar horrors and bitter upset. But when had Sherlock started acting strangely? His anger made John want to give the wanker a taste of his own medicine, but, again, _DOCTOR. _He was too good at what he did not to notice the warning bells.

_You selfish bastard. This isn't about you (you can berate him about that bit later) and you need to put aside frustration. Consider the facts. He hasn't talked to you in a week, what does that mean?_

But he didn't know. He _had_ no facts – hence why he'd been so angry earlier in the evening. Why couldn't Sherlock just _let John in? _If he wasn't interested in being friends, John would've at least expected him to be vocal about it, but _no _(and that thought was too painful to contemplate right now)_. What was wrong?_

He'd been different from the moment he returned to 221b, John realised. He'd just been feeling too utterly furious and hurt and betrayed to look closely enough, but it was obvious, really. His emotions weren't nearly as tightly controlled as they used to be. There was new understanding in what he did; how he _moved_. The boyish innocence was, in part, gone forever. And that made John so sad sometimes. More importantly, the faraway looks he gave now were wan and drawn. No strolling through the corridors and secret groves of his Mind Palace; these were memories that held him prisoner in his own head, letting the rest fall to rot.

_What happened to him?_

But he hadn't the courage to ask. Not after they started being _normal _again. He'd missed the man far, _far_ too much to risk the little ground they'd regained. He'd let Sherlock his haunted looks. _Damnit!_

Quickening his stride, he made it back to the flat with new levels of frustration (rising only because they were attempting to block out the fear). It was empty. And he was tired. With resolute orders to himself that he was to talk to Sherlock in the morning, he made to go upstairs; the room that was still _his_ even despite his not officially living there in nearly two years. He'd half expected Sherlock to get a new flatmate (or at least to trial them). He'd needed someone to share the rent before – how they'd met in the first place – but, no, there had been no one.

He paused on this thought. Stopped. _No one?_

Unwilling, his thoughts circled around Sherlock in 221b. Sherlock alone…playing his violin and setting fire to the kitchen. _He normally doesn't care if he's alone or not, _a small voice sniped. But that wasn't entirely true. He appreciated the company of someone he tolerated (cared for?) and he took better care of himself if that someone was around. It was good for him.

_There's Mrs Hudson. Isn't there? _Not the same thing. _Was there no one else in the world?_

Well, no.

Not really. He couldn't stand to go to his brother: a rift too deep to cross even if either was willing to bloody talk about it. Mrs Hudson was as much a mother figure to him as anyone. But, really, there were bits of your life your _mother_ really couldn't help fill. Greg? But…they weren't close. Closer than most people, and that was a feat worth a national holiday considering this was their self-professed sociopath, but not _that _close. Molly?

John couldn't help a sad smile. Molly was…kind. She was kind to Sherlock when no one else was and _god _knew she didn't have a reason to be. She was sweet on him, but she wasn't…clever enough? No – no she was clever. She was an excellent pathologist and knew more about practical entomology than anyone he knew. What then? Not…brave enough? Quick enough? Strong enough? No, Molly couldn't be what Sherlock _needed_ and Sherlock was unlikely to slow down long enough to appreciate what she offered.

Just him then. _Great. _

Why, then, why the _hell _had the great ignoble bastard spent the last few weeks more distant than ever before? Why had it gotten to the point where he was ignoring him completely? _Why? Where was he?_

This wasn't going to wait. Not even for fucking sunrise. Where? John checked his phone (nothing). Clenched his fists at his sides (useless) and finally looked round the flat. _Alright, if you know him so well, hows about you deduce where he'd swanned off to? _It was worth a go.

Which was how he noticed Sherlock's coat still on the hook. He never went out without it, even in midsummer. _Something_ was different tonight. And he usually wore shoes. And it was a chilly autumn midnight, so wouldn't he have taken his scarf?

All John's current observations pointed to Sherlock not having left the flat at all.

"Sherlock?"

No answer. Would he really have run off in his pyjamas and dressing gown, barefoot, into the London night? _Yes. Actually. _John just hoped to god he _hadn't._ He scrubbed a hand over his face. Tried to _think_. He knew enough about chemistry to know the experiment abandoned on the table was now a lost cause. Unease tipped to dread. Why? _Why?_

"Sherlock?" Still nothing. What about…_he'd _shouted_. _Hadn't he? Before he left? At someone who, quite probably, had depression. Well, he felt a right arse now (even if part of him still thought Sherlock deserved it). The man had always been more than a bit manic depressive, but never to the point of a _week silent_.

Without any hesitation, he strode then with military purpose to the bedroom across the hall. Pressed open the door. The room was gloomy, badly shadowed, and at first all he saw was the lump that indicated the detective sprawled on the coverlets. Then the image formed properly. The information came in.

In full, it stole the breath from his lungs.

He wasn't sprawled. He was half curled in; not quite the foetal position, but near enough that the excruciating vulnerability was plain to see. He was still dressed. The curtains were open. A streetlight was reflected in one blue-green eye. Open. He was entirely still. Like a six-foot statue.

"_Sherlock._" But if he hadn't responded up to now, the chances of a sudden change were none. His legs were lead as they took him to the bedside. He sat, not moving his eyes. He reached out a hand, not knowing what he was going to do. Then he decided to forego reason, discomfort, hesitance and anything else to brush his fingers through the lank curls over Sherlock's ear.

The man didn't stir. His eye didn't shut.

_Crap. _John gave himself a shove and let Captain Doctor take over, sweeping his eyes over the man. He checked. He checked his pupils. _Narcotics? _Didn't seem that way. Just far away.

He left his hand in the man's hair and tried not to feel vertigo. _He'd let this happen_. He was at a loss as to how he could've done things differently, but he had. Sherlock's so solidly built stone walls were just props made to keep people from prying. They were really made of paper, and that fragility was something John easily forgot – something everyone easily forgot – because Sherlock himself was so _strong_, so _self-possessed._ The paper had torn and he'd been unable to stop it happening. His…_bloody _job_._

He didn't move. Stayed like that, occasionally murmuring things and stroking Sherlock's hair, not daring to leave the room. It took another three hours, deep into the dark, before the man stirred.

"Hey. Hey mate."

He sat up slowly, mechanically, staring at where John's hand had fallen to the sheets.

"You…" silver eyes trekked slowly up his arm. When they got to his face, he froze, eyes widening a fraction before stopping altogether. John tried to smile. Be reassuring. But the stare went on and on and before he knew it he was stuck staring right back.

"Okay…" he murmured awkwardly. "Sherlock…?"

He seemed to choke on his own inhalation; blinked.

"You…you're…y-you're still…"

John sighed with a gush of air.

"Sherlock, I'm not still angr –"

"…here?"

In the still of the night, the doctor stared at him. His face was paler than he'd seen it since Baskerville and he looked so _shocked. _Half his hair was gummed up one side and that was because – _red rims, slight grubbiness in his cheeks – _my god! He'd been _crying_. Real crying. As in _crying for real_. In light of everything, maybe a breakdown was inevitable, but being faced with it was still a punch in the diaphragm.

"Of course." He found himself saying, shocked as Sherlock now. "Of course I am, you git."

The detective blinked again, then nodded hard. Breaking eye contact for the first time. Breathing out.

"_Jesus." _John watched as his body slumped. A marionette with cut strings. His body seemed so limp, it was amazing he didn't fall back to the bed, though as if to defy John's though process, he got up then.

"Tea, John? Or would you prefer a proper dinner? I'm rather peckish myself, and you didn't finish your chips at the _Crown_."

"Sherlock, it's half two in the morning."

"Oh. Well there must be somewhere."

"Sherlock."

"Tea then?"

"Sherlock!"

The man stopped. Rigid. In the middle of the lounge, and John slowly (cautiously) stood and went to join him. He was staring into the empty fireplace.

"Sherlock…what the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"Please." He came round so that he was stood immovably in Sherlock's line of sight. "Please, just. Talk. For me."

It took another age for the detective to reply, but John could wait. He could wait out the world for him.

"It doesn't make sense. Simple psychology. _It doesn't make sense_."

"Sometimes it just doesn't. It gets better, though, Sherlock, it does."

"No it doesn't." It's a whisper from places in his head John should never have seen. "It gets worse. I don't…"

"Don't what?"

"Don't…you…"

He seemed to be falling back into darkness and John suddenly understood. There wasn't much to understand. He'd been complaining how Sherlock wasn't there for him in his need, yet he'd done so much worse when Sherlock had come back. Come back after _god knows what_ to a best friend who was determined to be a complete _twat._

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock." He said firmly. "God knows I couldn't if I tried. I've spent every waking moment over here for months."

"I took Mary away from you."

John needed a few moments for this.

"No you didn't." Sherlock frowned at him, but he determinably shook his head. Letting go of the _bitterness, _actually, felt so _good. _"She left because she wanted something else. She talked to me about it before she went."

"Did she tell you…no."

"Tell me what?"

Suspicion and fear speared through him, but he was being ridiculous. And no, if Mary really had been sneaking round behind his back, she wouldn't have had reason to stay in the first place. More likely it was something Sherlock had deduced about her that was just private enough he was willing to stay quiet for their sakes. Sherlock sighed, emotion fighting its way onto his still ashen face.

"Sleep, I think." John smiled at him. "Good long sleep, and you'll feel better."

* * *

**THE SKULL ON THE MANTLE**

A day later.

Then again, it is ridiculous they lasted this long.

They're both on the sofa, watching evening telly, still treading egg shells. And, poor Sherlock, it hits him in the middle of a Brian Cox documentary about the nature of time that he's still in the same room as his blogger.

"You're really not leaving?"

John stops with a mug half way to his lips.

"No? Look, unless you _want_ me to –"

Sherlock moves with the compact grace of a lanky child and barely avoids sending the tea flying. John seems to take a moment of surprise to acknowledge he has a Consulting Detective wrapped round him like a sloth.

"Um…Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. _Forgive me_."

(Dimly John realises this is the first significant physical contact between them since Moriarty)

"Hey, it's fine. Just stop shutting me out."

"Only if you don't leave." It's childish and muffled in John's shoulder.

"Never."

(Sherlock feels the stiff, natural reluctance relax on purpose so that, rather than a stilted moment of madness and desperation on his part, they are embracing each other. He allows himself this gleaming moment. The warmth.)

"You and me?" He says, sounding by increments more confident.

"Always."

_Wrong._

(Sherlock wants to say it out loud, but doesn't. He doesn't part with the fantasy just yet. The world is more right than it has ever been.)

_Just a matter of time._

* * *

**_A.N: Ah, the feels. Nasty thing, depression. Get people help or get help; seriously, don't let people drown in their own heads. Review(s)?_**


	3. The First Problem

**The First Problem (the Last)**

**LESTRADE**

"Kids found her like this at ten to eleven last night. Been dead two days, no sign of the murder weapon, no sign of identification on the body. Could really use your eye."

Sherlock knelt down to the body, John following, giving his cursory examination. They were at ease with one another – as if the animosity of the last year had broken, and thank Christ for that.

"Anything?" He had to fight the smile. Not very well, but it wasn't professional. He could grin when there _wasn't _a woman lying dead (because _he _was the fucking _policeman._ And someone had to be the adult).

"Most likely lives nearby; there's still traces of dust and mud on the shoes where she walked here. Unlikely place, but then again _illicit liaisons_ usually are. Killer was her lover; younger than her. Off the estate: there's fibres of a cheap jumper under her fingernails and lingering traces of cigarettes on her mouth and in the finger marks on her neck. Chain smoker; ginger hair."

"And the weapon used to cut her chest open?"

"Happened post mortem." John cut in promptly. "Cuts are wide and deep, but otherwise far too clean for her to have been alive while he did it."

"He cut out her heart." Donovan put in dispassionately; almost as if she could find the poetic justice in that. Maybe…she and Anderson had been broken off for a while now after it became clear he wasn't going to leave his wife...and because he was wracked with guilt over Sherlock, leaving only her in stubborn denial about the whole thing. It was amazing she'd kept her job and Phil hadn't. Then again, she was half decent at what she did and often cut through everyone else's crap when he wasn't around to do it personally. She got things done. All the same, he winced. Barely a second later, Sherlock scoffed.

Greg prepared to step between her and a scathing dressing down about 'romanticising', but surprisingly John's harsh laugh made the three of them turn.

"I wouldn't call it 'cut out' exactly. By the time he was finished butchering the wrong side of the chest, I think he must have given up and gone home. You're looking for a cook's knife in the hands of a sick psychopath who had no practical knowledge of what he was doing _whatsoever_. It's only small mercies he didn't try a Ripper." He stood, taking off the rubber gloves and giving Sally a hard look. "He took her wedding ring too, didn't he?"

Greg watched Sherlock's eyes widen fractionally. Then a light flicked on in them and he knew as soon as he turned away there would be a smile for John.

"I'll get on it. Estate there's only small and half the young ones are on our system anyway. Shouldn't take long." He gave them a nod and watched them leave.

"And if we find the boy before the murder weapon?"

"Then we have legit grounds for questioning him about his lover's death." He resisted rolling his eyes. "You still don't trust him? After everything he's done for us?"

"Just 'cos you're the one he jumped off that roof for." She muttered sullenly. How that knowledge had gotten around, he didn't know (it wasn't supposed to be public information so far as he could tell) but there it was. _Did his self-sacrifice make up for everything? Including the turning up high to crime scenes – back in the days when they'd only just met – and the planting suspicions about his sleeping-with-everyone-but-him now-ex-wife?_

He could've done without thirteen months of blaming himself.

And without thinking one of the best men he knew was dead.

And without watching John try and come to terms with the loss, which been the worst by far (worse even than the guilt). John had…well what was there to say? He'd lost half of himself without even realising he'd given it away to lose. _I'm not gay; no we weren't like that; for fuck's sakes Greg, we were NOT shagging!_

Didn't stop the pair of them being what they were. Or John suffering what he did. Or Sherlock looking at him, hovering around him, idolising him, _smiling _at him like –

It was completely inappropriate and had Donovan shooting him a very dirty look as she set about her work, but he couldn't have stopped the grin forming if he tried. Later, the killer was caught sobbing in a wardrobe full of pictures of the victim (_surprise surprise_). But instead of going off to be lonely at his one-man flat, thinking of the weekend (when he would next see the girls) he offered John and Sherlock a lift. This led to tea, and beer, and Sherlock bickering with John about…dehydrating insects in the kitchen light? And, finally, to a violin concertino, played before 221b's front window. It was as if they'd stepped back in time.

Yet not, somehow – there was much more unsaid now. A quiet awareness of each other's presence, reminding of what was _whole _once more. It wasn't the same, but it was…nice.

"You back up here, then?"

"Yeah," John was more than a bit dopey, but even without that he looked happier than Greg had seen him in weeks. In fact, more so sitting in his proper chair than he'd been in _years_. "Yeah, well…bout time, isn't it?"

"You still miss Mary, though."

"Yeah. God yeah. But…I dunno, it's not so bad now. She called, you know."

"Ah yeah, when was that?"

"Yesterday. Just to ask how I was doing, like."

The violin stuttered gently. He had to resist smirking. Still wasn't a good idea to push them though; if he got impatient, voiced the obvious, it could easily be like a hand grenade in a bakery. Nah, he could wait. Watch his friends and be happy that they were all still here.

It would happen eventually.

* * *

**MYCROFT**

It would never happen.

Sherlock's handling of the situation was utterly ludicrous and it was obvious that he neither understood what he was feeling nor the procedure for applying action. He and Watson were certainly getting along better of late, and the likelihood of him having to step in due to his little brother's mental state was getting less all the time. Mary Morstan was proving to be a lot less of a threat than had originally been promised; all in all, the pieces were slowly fitting back together again. Unfortunately, it was _painfully _clear that Sherlock had no intentions of revealing his true sentiments. Like it was a grand and terrible secret – _so dramatic!_

No, it didn't look like it would happen at all, barring another death-bed experience.

_Unfortunately_…well, they were all aware of the possibility, weren't they? Sherlock was reckless, careless of himself, and he pulled John along with him. There were always near-misses and they were constantly getting themselves injured. One wrong step; one reaction seconds out of sync (they weren't getting any younger after all). Not one of them voiced it, but it was there all the same. Painting the weekly call to Mummy and the (not that he'd ever admit to it) occasional nightmare.

It was perhaps two months after the incident with the bomb that something came up – some case of his that wasn't important enough for him to handle himself, but still something that required _legwork_ of the same vein. Sherlock had reacted as expected (relieving, in all honesty) and they'd raced off to that siren call. Not that Mycroft had ever intended for the outcome (though later Sherlock would accuse him of such). If he had, he would have planned it better. Fewer tears, less mess.

Fewer things to go wrong (to make him shudder afterwards).

Would he have done it twice? To ensure the outcome?

…caring wasn't an advantage. It was, however (at least in some cases) an investment. Sometimes, one lost capital. Other times that investment paid off and he would wonder, privately, with a scotch in his office, what would've been if he'd looked at John more closely and pointed him in the right direction two years ago.

Because John was full of a caring of his own.

* * *

_**A.N: Originally, this was going to be the introduction to the next chapter, but given the fact that I'm diverging from the norm in terms of perspective and what actually happens in the chaper, I thought it best to do away with combining them and let each stand on their own. Hence why this is quite a short, 'interlude-y' chapter (though it does still have a purpose - I loathe the concept of 'filler' chapters - each chapter should have a central**_** somet****hing**_** in it, be that introspection or action).**_

_**Reviews (flutters eyelashes)?**_


	4. A Study in Black

**A Study in Black**

**SHERLOCK**

"Good fucking god – _god, _you're a mess; _what the fuck were you thinking?_"

"_Me?_"

"If you hadn't run off ahead aft –"

"_If you'd been a half-second faster and leant two inches to the right when you came around that wall you'd be dead, John!_" He hissed, thorax tearing itself to shreds. "A bullet would've found your throat, and oh, wouldn't _that _have been a dampener on the proceedings!"

"Guys!"

Lestrade stood before them, fists clenched; face bloodless.

"We still have an effing massive terrorist attack to stop. So if you're _quite_ finished _going_ at each other!"

_He's RIGHT, Sherlock! Tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock…THEN THE CLOCK WENT BOOM! The mouse had its heart burned out and put on a plate…very sad…_

"It has to be something we've overlooked; something that's staring us in the face." Hidden in plain sight. The best were. His blood sang, racing round his body, but…all he could see was John face down in the alley, three seconds after hearing the shot. Of course the doctor had ducked, _stupid_, but for a single second his body had decided to surrender all water and make him a collection of acidic chemicals eating out the inside of a hessian sack. For a second he was useless; _pointless_ – all the people in the world; all the people they may or may not have been saving and the_ only one he cared about saving was – was –_

"What was the message again?"

"Underground. An underground operation."

"But that goes without –" Suddenly John went rigid.

"What?" Lestrade still looked clueless, but John...John had figured it out. His blogger. His clever, clever John: spotting the simple, clear truth his high-functioning mind skipped over.

"Underground. Literally."

His brain fired the connections and he couldn't supress the grin; the fire he _felt _in his eyes.

"You can't mean –"

"Yes, I can. Greg, _the tube_. There's got to be hundreds of empty stations, abandoned lines; the War Rooms for god's sakes!"

Sherlock vaguely recalled their watching a documentary of some sort in the recent past (a night on the sofa, take-away, tea, John's proximity making his body simultaneously so much calmer and maddeningly _charged_).

"Get everyone we have down there looking! We need that bomb found _yesterday!_ Move it!"

"We'll go to Sumatra Road," he was already moving, running the routes over the maps in his head. "Send a team as soon as you can. John!"

"Be careful!" Lestrade's shout sounded somewhere in the distance.

"Why Sumatra Road?"

"It's a station underneath parliament; only ever half built. The line's fully connected, but there was never any station built on the surface."

"Under parliament? You don't think…"

"How better to a political statement."

"_Christ._"

They clattered down the steps, the road rising then flying overhead. Their steps echoed back, mingling, crashing together; creating dissonant standing waves (it didn't matter. The thundering was in his ears and in his feet).

"John."

The service door led them from gleaming off-white to dull, poorly lit concrete and black soot. John coughed. Their feet were stirring the carcinogenic dust, but there was no time for that. They raced on to the ghost station.

"Come on John! We don't have much time!"

"Yeah…" Suddenly he was hesitant. Had he seen something? Someone? Heard something (Sherlock checked and re-checked the data input). Nothing red-flagged.

"_John!_"

"Yeah, yeah, right behind you!"

They plunged then into the dark. Only their torches lit the way ahead, glancing off the concave walls. And, before them was…

…nothing.

Sherlock sped up.

"No, no this doesn't make sense,"

"Maybe they weren't as organised as we thought." John picked his way up behind him. Sherlock scoffed, pressing back against the wall of incomprehension.

"No, they evaded MI6, and not simply because of a spontaneous set up. This was planned months in advance: smokescreens, false information – and for what? Blowing up some random building? Targeting someone else? _No._ We would have known; we would have seen it. This _is_ politics and spectacle and a grand end to our _corrupt_, _indolent _government."

"They could've called it off? Planned something else last minute?"

"They're fanatics John; your blog is a testament to how relentless the _common_ fan can be."

"So –"

He turned about in the absolutely deserted tunnel.

"What now?"

Sherlock glanced above him, the buildings above painting over in his mind's eye.

_Yesss, what NOW Shirly? What do we do now? Come on, it's OBVIOUS; it's so EASY – you really are a dunce at this, you know that?_

He barely suppressed a retort as he whirled about his evidence rooms, throwing things into discord; isolating them out in the hopes of _seeing_ (_pattern, pattern – what is it? What is it I missed?)_

_SHERlock! Tick tock tick tock…oh, you'll see it in a minute. You'll see._

"Sherlock?"

"I don't know. There's no _sense _to this – I don't know."

_BURN baby, burn…_

"_Shut up!_"

"I didn't say anything!"

"Not _you_."

"Sherlock!"

Then it hit him. It hit him hard. _Why throw up all those clues, all those arrows on a map; the motivation, the method? Not obviously. No. Just not-obviously enough to bring _them_ right here right –_

"JOHN!"

_Boom_. Not a large _boom_, or really even a tunnel-rattling sort of _boom_, but then again Sherlock's ears were filled with a rushing noise as if he was underwater. In that moment his mind and body were two different entities; the one that knew, with sudden stunning clarity, that this was all directed at them and that John was likely to be the one in imminent danger, and the one that was moving towards John before the former had even resolved itself into articulation. John yelped as they collided with a crunch, Sherlock driving them both to the filthy floor.

_No fire. No falling masonry. No bullets. John breathing (staccato, but _breathing_) beneath him._

_Data: no change._

"Sherlock?" John was fighting to get his breath back.

"Are you al – _aaarg!_"

"Sherlock!"

John was scrambling up, wide eyed, trying to shove him onto his side so that the doctor could check him over. The problem was, however, that the suddenly noticed crippling _agony _in his foot multiplied by a non-linear factor as he tried to move it.

"_Christ in hell _– Sherlock, stop moving! I can see it; stay still!"

Forced onto his front, Sherlock stopped trying to contort himself round.

"What. _Is_. _It?_" He forced out, the pain all but punching the air from his lungs.

"Jesus – spring trap. Like those old bear traps with the half-circles and the teeth."

He tried to move again, to get a better view, but John's hand firm on the base of his calf stopped that before it started.

"Oi – you've been _bloody _lucky!"

"_Lucky?_" He let out a gust of breath that might have been a laugh.

"The damage is spread out below the ankle, but not far enough down that the trap's shut. You'll have hit the tendons, but…hah, the way you twisted…the teeth have gone in on the sides, not the top. Can't see if it's broken. Have to get your shoes off. But it definitely hasn't got an artery."

John exhaled raggedly.

"Yes. Well. That's all _very _interesting, but I would be more appreciative if your observations extended to a way of _releasing_ my foot, John."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm looking. _Shit._"

"Well?"

"Look – give me a minute?"

Sherlock fixed his eyes on a dim dent in the metal lines in front of his nose and tried to ignore the fire further down. It was more difficult than he'd thought – particularly because he fell into the methods he'd used when he'd been in the hands of less savoury individuals and the memories flew up from their chains. It took a mighty effort not to succumb to them, hearing Moriarty cackling distantly inside his own head.

"I can see the mechanism."

The dent was fringed with soot, slightly blacker than the rest of the sleepers.

"Wire cutters?"

"_Pocket_."

He would not cry out. Wouldn't. He nearly groaned, though, as John's warmth came into contact with his navel though the pocket's inside. It was comfort and a reminder and an _ache_ he suddenly realised he'd been carrying for weeks. The need to _touch_. Contact that was warm and solid and…not from anyone else. The thought was disgusting for anyone else. Just John.

"I can't…I can't see how this fits together."

_What was that noise? A sort of humming close to his face. Not mosquito – it was too late in the year, in any case – but deeper, more resonant. _Intrigued _(well only a bit, but he _really _did need a distraction right at this instant) _he tried to pinpoint it.

"John,"

"Yeah, just give me a sec..."

"The _track_, John."

John froze.

* * *

**JOHN**

"Above us?"

He didn't even believe his own question, but he could hope. He could _pray_.

"Someone's sent a train."

"But –" _But what? It was all built underground, wasn't it? _Just the surface bit that wasn't there; there was no reason a train _couldn't _travel this line.

"Fuck. Oh, _fuck_. How long?"

"Minutes. _If that._"

Sherlock's voice rasped worse than when he'd been chain-smoking for days. It broke John's heart to see him close to being poleaxed by the pain, but that was easy enough to ignore. Part of being a trauma surgeon was learning how to compartmentalise compassion. What he couldn't ignore was the sudden horror that blurred his vision.

A train. And Sherlock was held in place _right across the tracks_.

"_Fuck_." His eyes whizzed over the ugly metal trap.

"John…"

"Shut up."

"Couldn't we just –"

"We haven't got anything to do it with!" Great; more nausea at the image of amputating (which would take _hours _anyway with anything less than a bone saw). Rip it out? Massive damage to the tendons, but –

It would keep pressing shut. Deeper wounds each time. _It'd take too long._

"Shit!"

"John."

"Shut up!"

"_John._"

It was just a spring trap; there had to be something to cut. Something to break the tension and force it open. He was already on his hands and knees trying to prise it. There was give – _there was give! He could do this!_

"John!"

"_What?_"

"John, there's an emergency alcove twenty metres ahead."

"Your point?" His fingers were stuck with pins, but he didn't stop, not for a second.

"_John_, though I appreciate the sentiment, I fear your…_efforts_...are futile."

"Thanks for the encouragement."

_A little more. A few more FUCKING millimetres…_

"What I'm…trying…to say…is…"

"Yup. I know. I know what you're saying."

The man paused.

"Oh."

"You can stuff it."

Sherlock's body seemed to slump into the pain, curling inwards with a groan.

"_John…go_…you've done all you can, _go!_"

"Give me. Another. Minute!"

"_We don't have another minute!_"

He was right. He _was_ right. John could hear the clatter now, hurtling towards them.

"John, you have to go." Sherlock stated, calm now. The contrast was so sudden, John wondered what he'd blinked and missed.

"No I don't."

"You do. Don't die here."

"_God_ –"

"Please."

John risked looking up. Sherlock's face screwed up at a fresh assault, but there was a finality to him John didn't like. Not at all.

"_Not. Hap –_"

"Live. _Please._"

The noise of the tracks was eclipsed by the thunder of the carriage – nearer, _nearer_ – and Sherlock finally twisted round in the torchlight to look him in the face. A defeated, desperate look. A look that held all the care the world claimed he didn't have – the care he himself denied having on a regular basis. But it was more than that. It was a look that would haunt John's dreams worse than the one he'd got at Baskerville and more than the momentary, thought pausing surprise that seemed to populate his face when he'd stepped into John's line of sight at St Barts (an irony he'd never adequately apologised for) all those months ago. Actually, it was nearly a year now, wasn't it?

A year of having not lost him.

Not-quite-a-year of finding his way back to him.

Of the World's Only Consulting Detective, the most brilliant man alive; the _only _life John seemed to have, his own burning inside this six-foot, insufferable, mad bastard who's now trying to tell John to leave him and save himself.

"_Fuck. THIS!_"

_Creak. Snap._

John's heart might have been in his ears. It was hard to tell. He could only register that they'd been boxed in by a wave of shuddering air as it was pressed before the locomotive. How _the hell_ he managed to hoist Sherlock up by the armpits and launch them both bodily into the alcove, torches forgotten, he would never know. Later, he'd ascribe it to the astonishing feats a human can do when pushed to the very brink.

Perhaps this was why Sherlock danced the line: the possibilities.

Right now, he was just numb.

The train screeched to a halt, blocking the alcove, and a muffled scream of rage rose out of the dark, echoing beneath the earth. He was dimly aware that his grip tight around Sherlock was probably holding him up, backed as John was against the wall. To his right was the side of the train, though of course he couldn't see it, and to his left was probably (hopefully) an emergency door. But there was no power down here, and no light to see by. So he clutched Sherlock to him. And Sherlock clutched to him, face buried somehow in his neck.

A bang of a fist on metal made them jump, but John wasn't completely blank: no light meant no doors. They might be trapped, but the psychopath train driver who had, quite possibly, faked the _entire thing_ in order to settle a grudge, couldn't get at them either.

"John."

He felt the name rather than heard it, mouthed against his skin. Sherlock seemed to balance himself, trying to shift into a one-foot stand whilst not breaking contact at all. John allowed his death-hug to relax, if only slightly.

_They were okay. They were okay. They were stood _breathing _in the freezing dark, _alive _and –_

Sherlock's hands slid either side of his face. On its own, John wouldn't have batted an eyelid. He'd stopped being awkward about personal space and physical implications that were void because this was _Sherlock _years ago. But they were suddenly just _there. Cradling _rather than holding. Then lips were pressed to his.

In the pitch black of the London underground, Sherlock pressed them together as if he could fuse them at the mouth.

It lasted far longer than it should've done, but for that John had everything to blame: the near-death bonding, the adrenaline, the cold verses warm bodies. He could've blamed bloody shock for the way he barely reacted at all, nevermind moving.

But he didn't.

Because he wasn't incoherent when Sherlock kissed him, and though he _was numb and therefore didn't react properly_, his mind processed everything. Every touch. Every press from chest to knee and the hands grasping his scapula.

At the time, he wished he could rewind the clock; make this _not have happened_.

Because he _wasn't _gay.

Because two hearts broke when he had to put his own hand on Sherlock's chest and push him gently away.

"I…I…"

"_I'm sorry._" The words ghosted over his lips. "_I'm sorry. I – _AH!"

John lunged blindly to catch him before he fell, cursing reflexively as he guided them both back to the wall. By this point something seemed to have broken in the air and John could hear Sherlock start to hyperventilate next to him, acknowledging the wave of _oh Jesus oh Jesus _rising in his gut. It wasn't there _yet_ though, so John did what his instincts told him to do. No fuss, no thinking too hard; just what you did when things went to shit and the world threw fucked up stuff at you.

Not that this was fucked up. Or wrong. Or…

…It was just…_not him. _

He pulled Sherlock to him, shaking his head as the detective shook silently.

"…Sherlock," he began softly, forcing his breathing – his _brain _– to remain calm and even, but before he could go on, Sherlock clasped his arm, forid leaning into his jumper-clad shoulder. Rather than his neck. Which had felt _nice – why deny it now?_ – but he was grateful for that offer of detachment. Any more, and he didn't know if he could've handled it.

_Later. There _is_ a later; we can sort this out then. _And until then…

"I'm sorry." It came out before he could stop it.

"Don't be." He felt Sherlock smile before the man lifted his head. "Don't be that."

He didn't see the tears. He only realised his shoulder was damp hours later, after Sherlock settled against him a third time and they stood – then sat – like that for the marching hours until the police came.

* * *

**_A.N: I couldn't resist the little nod to The Hobbit, I really couldn't :P Anyway, what I was trying to do was a) pull the rug out from under people, b) create a suspense situation, c) generate a situation of 'what happens when the lights are off' kind of thing, and d) try and deal with this in a way that is completely organic to the characters. Sherlock's emotional instability I see as being legit seeing as how he comes back from exile with much, much thinner armour than before and a greater appreciation and awareness of certain things about himself._**

**_Reviews?_**


	5. The Case of the Lonely Oyster

**The Case of the Lonely Oyster**

**JOHN**

It was true to say he remained calm and relatively cogent throughout the entirety of Scotland Yard extracting them from the ghost tunnel. No, the crash happened when they got back above ground and the criminal mastermind cum unappreciated, under-resourced train driver was dragged kicking and screaming up with them.

His gunmetal eyes chilled John to the bone.

"YOU! You're the ones who are sick! Getting off on it – you never see it! NEVER! Never what it DOES! SOULLESS BASTARDS! FREAKS! And YOU!"

John felt his entire body angle in front of Sherlock as the lunatic ripped a hand free and pointed at the detective, eyes crazed and wide as saucers.

"You were meant to _feel it_ as your bum-boy got ripped to pieces before your eyes! SCREAM because you couldn't save him!"

He was still close enough to feel Sherlock shake. A peripheral look showed that, whilst John's face had gone up in flames, Sherlock's hadn't so much done the reverse as turned to stone; grey and unmoving. Anger didn't cover it. Rage didn't cover it. Underneath it all was the horrific, unsaid sensation of having had the world knocked unceremoniously on its side, all rules scattered to the wind. Which was why his face was almost neutral by the time he was stood before the man, eyes dark as the night about them (though not quite the black holes he was looking at).

"First…_if _we were –" the words stuck hard in his throat, suddenly like glass. "If we were…"

He felt Sherlock looking at him as if his eyes were lasers. As if his brain was made of white, icy cloud. Every variation of _what now_ was streaming through his head at the speed of light _and that bastard was still there while Sherlock leaned into his side on one foot –_

"…_it'd be none of your fucking business!_" He resisted the urge to break the man's face. "_Second. _You don't go near him again. Got it?"

The man _actually_ hesitated. A bolt of satisfaction pierced the mist. John had no idea the look he was currently wearing, but judging by the stares of the Yarders, it wasn't pretty. Sherlock looked away, though, and that just sent everything spinning again.

_Why? Why why why why? The fuck, why?_

Lestrade hauled him away, but couldn't apprehend the silence left in his wake.

"Come on." He muttered mechanically, mouth on autopilot. "Paramedics need to see your foot."

"Why can't you do it?"

John glared, fingers digging hard into Sherlock's side.

"_Because_." He practically dumped him onto the back of the ambulance. "_Because_ you are going to sit down and let them clean out whatever crap got into those wounds, _then _sit _still _whilst they stitch it up."

Sherlock looked a bit like a kicked puppy, but to trivialise it like that was too much even in John's head. Nevertheless, he did as he was told, and for the moment John was selfishly grateful for that. It meant he could wander off and have a single second of quiet to himself. Or not-quiet where people wouldn't stare so hard at him for bending down, hands on his knees, and screaming.

"Better?"

"Not really, no."

Sherlock's head dropped, and John looked over in alarm.

"You okay?"

It was a stupid question.

"No. John?"

"What?"

"I believe I may really be in shock."

"Yeah. It happens, you know, Sherlock. To humans."

Although not always because of injury. Through the swirling mess, John tried to pull What To Do out, got stuck once again on the urge to yell until he was hoarse. _Come on! What are the options?_

Option A: sit down and have a rational conversation about their relationship?

Option B: stand up and attempt a conversation about 'feelings'?

Option C: fuck options A and B

"_Fuck._"

Option D: take up shouting into bins (a popular hobby, it has to be said)

Option E: give in and finally go mad. Or snog Sherlock. Or both.

John stopped. Despite the automatic rejections that happened all over his brain at the thought, he forced himself, just for a second, to consider that last thought. Focus on the act. Kissing Sherlock. Doesn't matter the context, where they are right now, what might happen, or even whether it will _ever _happen – he can _think_ of it right? Just inside his own head, bringing his hands to Sherlock's jaw, leaning forward…and…_no no no no no! No! Wrong! _Well not 'wrong' but _they were best mates, so hell yeah it was 'wrong'!_

It was a line that mates, whether male or female, _didn't_ cross.

No matter that they spent practically every waking moment together and had no significant others present in the equation.

"_Fuck!_"

He wasn't gay! He was allowed _not to be gay!_

Clenching his fists, he tried to relax enough to try the image again (just to, well, check) but he didn't even get half as far and just ended up kicking the bin.

"Oi!" Sally Donovan had somehow made her way over. "What's got into you two then? We got the suspect, raving and all! This all just too boring for you, is it? Or are we interrupting your private time?"

John levelled a glare, finally ready to tell her what he thought of her (Englishman politeness be buggered). But Sherlock spoke then, clearly firmly, in a voice that left no room for misinterpretation.

"Donovan. We are not now, nor have we ever been, romantically involved with one another. This is owing to the fact of his and my sexual preferences and their inherent incompatibility."

By the end, the whole Yard was listening. But John was almost sure only he (and possibly Greg) registered the undercurrent of bitterness; of self-directed anger. Nevertheless, it shut down the muttering better than a mute button and had everyone scuttling back to their business. Donovan looked shocked and more than a little embarrassed. Sherlock glared at her until she moved away.

More weary than he'd ever been, John dropped gingerly next to his best friend.

"You are correct, John, the insinuation is somewhat irritating. I will begin following your example of setting opinions straight."

"Sherlock, that's not…" The sentence ended somewhere in the mist, lost. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

"I only wish us to continue as we are. Delete the entire incident if you must; I shall certainly do so."

"No. No, I don't –"

"Don't what?"

"I don't know."

"Illuminating."

"Shut up."

"John, I _wish to continue as we are_."

And didn't _that _get John's attention? Sherlock hated repeating himself, rarely stooping to it even if the previous iteration was in another language (and that with bad grace). John looked to his side and met the verdigris eyes that were like stonewalls made of glass. The intensity behind them was shocking, and John found himself nodding dumbly.

"Good."

A brittle pause settled. It brought the chaos to heel. Except that it was as hollow as John's stomach. The longer it went on, the more miserable he felt. The more helpless.

_Yes. There was always Option F._

But, what was he going to do? He'd been given a way out, so 'nothing' apparently. As sick as that made him, he couldn't see another way. They'd just have to weather it. He'd be the soldier. They'd be fine.

"You're gay then?"

Sherlock looked at him.

"I suppose I must be by definition." The man sighed. "Honestly, before this if I was to describe myself it would have been devoid of any sexuality. Sex was simply not important, therefore I never took the bother to find out which arbitrary category the casual observer might place me in."

"So…"

"So…" he seemed to breath hard, organising the rogue feelings that kept threatening his forcibly static expression. "So I haven't sufficient data to make an informed conclusion about my own sexual identity. You are…an _anomalous_ reading."

John stared. And stared.

"Really, John, it is not that much of an oddity."

"No it –" _Crap. _"It's fine. It's all fine."

"Good."

"Great."

"We are _normal_ again?"

John swallowed.

"Yeah. Yeah, we are."

* * *

**SHERLOCK**

Logically, it should have been entirely possible for him to devote his higher functions to their immediate concerns. It was, after all, what he had constructed his brain to be able to do for the majority of his life. And, yes, he shut down all unnecessary sentiment as he really should've done before all this happened and shoved what refused to be deleted as far down into the dungeons of his mind palace as he possibly could. He observed John in the following days as his friend struggled with this latest bit of information (_Best friend, Sherlock, I have said it. You're my best friend. Whatever you're thinking now – and up here, I do know – remember that_).

But best friends did not kiss their respective best friend, did they?

However hard he tired, however he grappled, he couldn't _get rid of it. _It was permanently _there. _Graffiti on his walls. In John's not-looking-at-him eyes. Lestrade's questions. Mycroft's smug _knowing._

_Looks like the cat's out of the BAG now, eh Sherlock!_

He felt…exposed. It was liberating, but at the same time it was as if he'd leapt off a cliff, only to find himself stood, unharmed, before John at the bottom with neither knowing exactly what to do with it. And the longer it went on, the more keenly he felt _on display. Transparent. Vulnerable. _It was loathsome – would've been intolerable if it was the whole world looking at him in such a way. As it was, that John knew this great _thing _was…

_How long d'you think he's going to last, HMM? How LONG?_

"_John_." He moaned gently in the deepest, darkest part of the night, muffled by the pillows. He wouldn't have gone to bed, but he was so _tired_.

_You idiot._

"I know, John, I know."

_Do you want to talk about it?_

"He won't shut up."

_CHILDISH, isn't he? FREAKISH! Why would YOU love him, eh Jonny boy? _

"It _hurts. _I doesn't make sense and I try to pretend I don't, but it's _agony_."

"What's agony?"

"Can't you sort him out? No. You would've before. He just _won't shut up!_"

_ROUND and ROUND we GO; YOU will GO, and John will GO…_

"…Sherlock, there's no one here."

"What?"

"It's just us mate."

Sherlock's eyes flew open and found John kneeling at his bedside, anxiety growing by the second.

"Oh."

He sat up, crowding back against the headboard. John's eyes shimmered in the light from the streetlamp. The need – the overwhelming, childish, hopeless _need_ – to reach out over the half-foot chasm and _touch_ was devastating. _Just warmth. A little warmth in this icescape of a world. Not more than that. Not more._

But a touch was no longer just a touch. Warmth not warmth. A look not a look.

He wrapped his arms round his knees and fought the compulsion to bury his face in them; shut out the taunting light.

"I heard you mumbling, I thought –"

"You weren't asleep?"

"No."

John was still staring at him, a definite apprehension making them sharp in the gloom.

"I thought maybe you were having another nightmare. And, well…" he looked sheepish, but not away.

"You know about those?" He asked very quietly. Now John looked away, mouth unhappy, eyes resigned.

"Of course I know about those."

"Oh."

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

_YESSS, SherLOCK, why don't you TELL HIM? Telll himmm…GO ON!_

"Sherlock!"

"_Don't_."

The hands retracted even as he pressed down his head. The pain of his fingertips through his pyjamas and his squashed nose helped him forget warm hands and strong arms. They helped him not to feel John clambering onto the mattress so that he could sit in front of Sherlock without touching him.

"I'm fine."

"No you're not. You can't sit here and tell me that when you can't even look me in the eye!"

"I hate you. _I hate you._"

_THAT'S RIGHT! GO FOR THE JUGULAR! HURT HIM!_

"…look at me and tell me that."

Slowly, he raised his aching face. He moved his eyes (why on earth was this _hard? _It was simple mechanics!) to settle them on John's. They looked brown in the dark. But Sherlock knew better. They were the darkest, green-tinged blue that looked brown if someone wasn't looking properly. Has he thought about this before?

_Ah, come on – at least PRETEND you're still functioning with HALF A BRAIN, Sherl!_

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you, John, don't be inane."

_He KNOWS! He's GUESSED! CONGRATULATIONS Jonny boy!_

"And what else do you think you're listening to?"

He couldn't stand it. If he asked, John would rock him to sleep like a babe and whisper reassurances – or go and find Mrs Hudson to do it, more probably, because John could likely see the line drawn better than he could and he wasn't allowed; couldn't do it. He wanted John to touch, touch _him._ Which was ridiculous; since when did he crave touch? Crave closeness and –

_Oh, they all FORGET, little virgin. They all convince themselves they NEVER WANTED what they COULDN'T HAVE._

– no, it would never be like that. Not even fantasy any more. Not 'intimates' anymore.

"Sherlock?"

And what was he supposed to do? Forget, as if he didn't know what it _felt _like?

_I thought you said you DIDN'T HAVE ONE!_

"_Stop. Just SHUT UP!_"

"Sherlock, I'm not going away."

"Not _you_."

"You keep saying that – _who? Who _do you want to shut up?"

"…_Him_."

"'Him'?"

"Don't be obtuse John."

There was a pause. John looked as if he'd fallen through a mirror and ended up somewhere where all things were enantiomers of what should be. Perhaps he had in a metaphorical sense.

"You need to talk to someone about this." He said eventually. Ever the doctor. He snorted.

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"I meant –"

"A therapist? Me?"

"Well, it's not _normal_ to hear the voice of a dead man up inside your own head, Sherlock!"

"No? Well that's all very well then. If _John Watson_ thinks it's not _normal_ –"

"I trying to help you!"

"_I don't want you to help me!_"

"Well bully for you, I'm helping anyway! Seeing as how that's apparently my job!"

"_Get out_."

"Make me! 'cos, no, after everything we've gone through, I'm not going to sit by and let you do this. You were the one that wanted 'as we were', well this is what we bloody well are! You and me! And you're _scaring me half to death_, Sherlock! So TALK TO ME!"

His head was silent.

This relief.

It was visceral.

More so because he knew it was momentary. He launched himself into the storm's heart – _anything _to try and stop the vortex downwards – and found he'd launched his body too. He rammed his shoulder into John's chest, the motion knocking them both off the bed. Each man yelped in surprise.

"Oh this is how it is, is it?"

John flipped him easily onto his back, but Sherlock was nothing if not quick. Their limbs tangled, hands and feet flying everywhere. It was so utterly immature. Play fighting – yet this was play fighting with two men made in war, both with something to fight for, and neither willing to lose. John was remarkably strong for a civilian of four years; composed and passionate, all in one. The dungeons were quiet, and he gave his all, blood hissing through his body, flooding into exhausted extremities…

"Sherlock?"

He stared. He was above John, held up only by John's hand attempting to twist his elbow and his own knee. He looked down.

Where he ended and John began, it was hard to tell in the dark. John swallowed.

"I'm fine."

He was cold. His face was cold. His eyes staring into John's. His legs where he slowly pulled them free and set his feet on the floorboards.

"Sherlock –"

"Get some sleep John."

He padded out of his own room, not looking. This feeling…it wasn't shareable. It wasn't simple. It wasn't pain so acute it ceased to register and so became numbness instead. It was just hard reality. Cold. And simple. He really _didn't_ feel anything.

"_Ah, Sherlock. Dare I ask what I can do for you? If it is a request to acquire my sofa to cry on, then I'm afraid I have to say I'd rather watch your stumbling about this…prosaic dance from a distance._"

"Shut up. I'll do it."

"…_really?_"

"You can't afford to refuse; I've seen the reports."

"_Indeed. I won't. Nor, I assume, will I be able to talk you to seeing sense?_"

"No."

He stared out of the window, the details of the world swirling like the growing sleet storm until the car came round. Mycroft was nothing if not punctual when a life-threatening operation cropped up. In this case, as he climbs in, it might even be considered a mercy.

_The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword…wouldn't have thought YOU were the coward, SherLOCK!_

He didn't look back.

* * *

_**A.N: so I went over all poetic. The last line of Moriarty's is from this part of Oscar Wilde's The Ballad of Reading Gaol:**_

* * *

_**Yet each man kills the thing he loves**_

_**By each let this be heard,**_

_**Some do it with a bitter look,**_

_**S**__**ome with a flattering word,**_

_**The coward does it with a kiss,**_

_**The brave man with a sword!**_

_**Some kill their love when they are young,**_

_**And some when they are old;**_

_**Some strangle with the hands of Lust,**_

_**Some with the hands of Gold:**_

_**The kindest use a knife, because**_

_**The dead so soon grow cold.**_

_**Some love too little, some too long,**_

_**Some sell, and others buy;**_

_**Some do the deed with many tears,**_

_**And some without a sigh:**_

_**For each man kills the thing he loves,**_

_**Yet each man does not die.**_

* * *

_**Just thought it was rather appropriate :)**_


	6. Valley of the Unknown

**Valley of the Unknown (John Watson Does Not Fear)**

**JOHN**

He didn't know how long he spent lying there on the floor. He heard Sherlock talking – on the phone – and then his feet on the steps, still hitched despite his insistence that a set of bloody tears in his foot wasn't bothering him. He heard him leave.

John lay there on the floor of Sherlock's room, staring at the ceiling.

What he felt like…it was as if he was struggling. Tangled in a great web and straining to get free, yet below was a precipice off the world and once he did get free…

He tried to think.

He tried to get up.

But there on the floor was a hole in time and he could hide in it for a while; hide his whole body away so that he didn't have to hide from himself. _What had just happened?_

Absently, he ran a hand over his thigh where Sherlock had been pressed minutes (or was it hours?) before. It was…well what the hell was he _supposed_ to think about it?

_No, stop. Stop thinking 'supposed'._

It was…

…_right._

Okay that was weird. In what fucked up universe was that supposed –

_Stop thinking that word, goddamn it! How did you FEEL?_

Safe.

Which, strictly speaking, wasn't something that happened often when he wrestled tooth and nail with someone. Maybe it had something to do with that research about how pressure on the skin was comforting…but even that had to have context, and Sherlock pinning him down –

_Okay. Okay, deep breaths. Deeeep breaths. In…out…_

It was…

He wasn't gay. Of that he was basically certain. Believe it or not, not all the stories about army boys were true (even if there had been that offer in the barracks one night in their third week of the-middle-of-nowhere, but if anything that proved his point considering he'd smiled sadly and turned him down).

He was also a doctor. He was aware of just about everything about sex. What happened when things went right; what happened when things went wrong. He didn't specialise in it, but the knowledge he had left him with a vague sense of detachment (not disturbance. being disturbed was for undergraduates. _Nothing _disturbed him anymore by the time he was twenty two). Anyway, he'd been faced very bluntly with the mechanics of just about every kind of sex up to and including forty-year-old BDSM's and ill-prepared teenagers attempting to practice homosexuality in a world still built on heterosexual 'norms' in the most insidious ways possible.

Yet, for all of that, he still _liked women _and _didn't feel arousal for men._

Right. So he was certain about that bit. That was a start.

_What about Sherlock?_

_Oh god._

Sherlock was the exception to every rule, every attempt at definition. What was he?

– _Consulting Detective. Only one in the world; I invented the job._

What were they?

– _I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent!_

– _we solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants._

– _I'd be lost without my Blogger._

And by god if John hadn't been lost without his Detective.

_Really; 'his'? Is that what they were?_

They were friends. Flatmates. Best friends. Partners.

_Labels._

_God, _what they were defied labelling because it was so much more than he was prepared to try and categorise. They were best friends (who couldn't stand to be separated from one another). They could spend days apart without noticing (and then realise they were absent mindedly accommodating the other person without even noticing before noticing and missing them like a missing limb). They were flatmates (who still managed to be flatmates, somehow, after not living in the same house for nearly three years).

They lived and fucking _died _for one another.

They weren't a couple.

– _yes you are._

There were _friends _that loved each other. There were. Wasn't that enough? Enough for him? Enough for Sherlock?

_Oh god Sherlock._

Well, he already suspected the man of being a virgin, and not simply because of Mycroft's snide implications or the Woman's blatant comments. He just didn't pursue sex like most people. And to think of Sherlock in the same though train as 'romance' nearly had him burst out in hysterical laughter. Sherlock didn't do _romance. _He barely did '_other people_'.

– you are an anomalous reading.

_He_ was…for Sherlock he was…they were mates – god, how he hated calling Sherlock _mate_. He'd done it once while they were still finding their feet again and he'd wanted to chuck. But despite everything that had passed between them, they were still…something. In the past week he'd being trying _so hard _not to look at him differently. But what was he supposed to do? He wanted to comfort him and be _as they bloody were_, but where was the line between intimate and cruel? Between friends and…something else?

_They'd always been 'something else'._

But he couldn't…he _couldn't_…

And how could he not see Sherlock differently when that kiss was all that occupied his head at night (whenever he shut his eyes)? How could he pretend it didn't break apart his entire _world?_

_Oh, and if it was impossible to even imagine at first, it was certainly impossible to stop now. Now _that _feeling – like Sherlock was attempting to drink him in; all that focus boring into him like he was the last man on earth._

When the fuck had that happened anyway? For someone who practically lorded over Sherlock his knowledge of human emotions (and, to be fair, it was the only thing he could hold over him) he had managed to fail quite spectacularly. How had he missed it? _How? _He spent every day with Sherlock; tried to observe him a fraction as much as the detective observed him. Had he just not noticed this monumental shift in Sherlock's behaviour? Or was the kiss just the spur of the moment?

A spontaneous decision to take a new stab at 'people'?

Oddly enough, it felt better to try and deduce _that_ than it did to examine his own identity crisis. He ran a hand over his eyes and slowly sat up, cracking his back (_crap. He kept forgetting he was getting old. Fuck you too spine_).

_When?_

He got to his feet, swaying slightly as the blood rushed back to his head.

_WHEN?_

"Sherlock?" He called without really thinking. They could do this, they could –

Oh.

John found himself in the middle of the living room staring blankly at the empty chairs, at last turning his head to the mirror and catching his own, desolate expression.

Sherlock had fled. To god knows where. In the middle of the night.

"Greg?"

"…_ack…John – oh god, what's he done?_"

"No that's not – he didn't call you did he?"

"_What?_" Greg sounded like he half fell out of bed, groaning heavily into the receiver. "_No_…"

"Shit. Shit –" John felt like his head was being compressed. "He…he left. He called someone, and then he left."

"_John –_"

"He was upset. I think – I mean, my god, this is Sherlock, and –"

"_Alright, alright – John, look, calm down!_"

"How am I meant to stay _calm, _Greg?"

"_Have you phoned Myc?_"

"N –" _Really? _"No, not yet."

"_Right. Do that before you panic._"

"You call him _Myc?_"

"_Yeah, it pisses him off._"

Despite everything, John felt himself shrug as he hung up and dialled for his last hope. Well, 'hope' was the wrong word, but it was better thinking of Sherlock with Mycroft than in a drug den somewhere, high out of his mind (he'd probably even enjoy giving witness at the murder trial).

"_John._"

"Is Sherlock with you?"

"_Not presently._"

John held the speaker away from his mouth, but Mycroft still no doubt heard the expletive that burst irrepressibly from his chest.

"Look –"

"_Perhaps I should revise: he _was_ with me, but is no longer._"

His heart beat somewhere in his throat.

"Where?"

"_That is classified. Be assured he will no doubt return to you in a few days. A week at most. Is there anything else I can do for you, Doctor Watson?_"

"…no."

The line went dead. The air ringing in his ears was deafening, and all he could think was that he was staring through a fog in the eye of a hurricane. And that he had never been more lost in his life.

* * *

**LESTRADE**

The door opened to an ashen-faced army doctor.

"You look surprised."

"I didn't –" he shook his head and stepped aside. Greg grimly led the trek up the stairs and, not that he knew it, ended up standing exactly where John had been.

"You…didn't have to, um,"

"Yeah, well, when you didn't call back, I assumed you'd found out something from Mycroft and either way you'd be on your own here, so…" he shrugged despondently. "Thought you could use the company."

John looked at him for a moment: the soldier warring with the bloke who was stuck with no idea what to do. Then he shifted his gaze down, shoulders slumping. His voice was almost oppressively quiet.

"Thank you."

"Anytime, John."

The man nodded and then seemed to literally sink into the sofa. Greg sighed. It was only a shadow of what he'd seen immediately after Sherlock's swan-dive. But not out of the picture either, the selfish git. What did he want to run off leaving John alone for?

"Ah, well, since you got me all the way out here at twenty to two…cuppa?"

He smiled reflexively; nothing behind it but a crack at normalcy, but it did the trick. John rose from the couch, into the kitchen, then back four minutes later. Greg stretched. The aches of too-little sleep attacked his back and part of him really just wanted to sort this out so that he could get back to bed. John, though…he just looked so distressed. Not their normal domestic, then: something else.

He looked around the room. There was no new damage apparent, no evidence of an experiment gone particularly wrong; nothing thrown about (because if this was serious enough, John did tend to let it out on the objects in immediate reach). There weren't even the drifts of notes and files – and that in itself might be something; so nothing new in the past week? So it wasn't just a fight then. Something had badly upset Sherlock.

He risked a sidelong look at John and tried not to sigh.

Actually he tried not to feel angry, because it _wasn't_ John's fault and now wasn't the time even if it was. John was Sherlock's friend – worthy of a Nobel Peace Prize – but he was only human.

Perhaps it wasn't so surprising that he felt protective of both of them at the same time. After all, he'd seen both of them at their very lowest and _carried them through _at their very lowest. Fuck it, _he _should be the one afforded the prize considering he stopped John before he could drown in his own grief and gone even further than that for Sherlock: getting him help, offering a place to get away from Mycroft, nagging him to eat. That'd been him at the start!

He'd found him when he was sat on the roof of Barts, legs dangling over the edge, watching his beloved city as he raised the needle to his arm.

_Good god, had he been that young?_

So yeah, this was hard.

"What happened?"

John shifted. _Oh. _Well, he'd known already what was really wrong, hadn't he? Still: shit.

"I don't suppose he meant to tell you…"

John's head whipped around.

"You _knew?_"

Greg felt like retorting that the whole of London _knew_.

"John, what. Happened?"

"I…_told you. _He ran off. But…you _knew_ – you –"

"Yeah, of course I knew_, _I'm his friend, even if he doesn't see it that way!" Tire gone, he glared at John. "So that's it then: he blurted it out, words were said, and now he's gone off to Mycroft's until he calms down, have I got it right?

He'd wanted to challenge John. Bring it all out. What he got was John looking like he was going to be sick.

"You say that like…" his voice was barely a cracked croak. He shook his head.

Then it hit Greg in the sternum.

"Wait…" he literally had to brace his hand on the back of the sofa. "…you're trying to tell me you _didn't _–"

"OF COURSE I FUCKING DIDN'T! DON'T YOU THINK I WOULD'VE –"

He stopped abruptly from where he'd jerked to his feet. Looked for a second like he really was going to throw up (doubled over, hands on knees, staring wide eyed at the floor and everything). Then clasped his hands hard behind his head and raised it, clearly trying to hold it together.

"He snogged me, alright. In the tunnel. After that maniac tried to run us down."

"_Christ_." Greg breathed, trying not to feel light-headed himself. Watching John pushed to shouting was not half as tame as it looked from the outside, but how the hell could he have _not _seen it? And the fact that he _hadn't –_

Yes, he'd put money on them. But only because he thought John would finally concede to wanting a full life with Sherlock. To trusting him again. _Jesus Christ. _

He _hadn't _thought (and oh shit, he should've seen this coming) that Sherlock was _right_ and that, in trying to hide it, he was successfully saving their friendship. Greg just thought John knew and had accepted it. Gotten used to it. Sherlock thought it made him vulnerable and would inevitably be terrified when he finally voiced it, but it wouldn't be this much of a problem because John _already knew_.

_Wouldn't _get slapped in the face with something that changed _everything_.

He felt sorry, _oh god so sorry,_ rush up, before he remembered that Sherlock already spilled it. He watched John helplessly as he staggered backwards and collapsed in his chair.

"Um," there had to be _something _to say. "Um –"

John drew taut hands over his face and let them stay there.

"God, why now if you've known for a week?" He didn't respond. Fuck. "Do you – do you have any whiskey?"

"Yeah." The doctor looked at him numbly. "Yeah that's sounds good right about now."

Relieved, Greg pulled himself over to the cabinet and brought out the bottle of cheap Grouse (no point in wasting the expensive stuff if all they were going to do was throw it back). When finally they both had fingers of the amber fire, John swallowed his like it was some sort of horrific medicine (which in a way it was) before refilling the tumbler.

"When?" He asked the drink. Greg shrugged.

"I dunno. I always thought you were –" that just made him look a shade worse, so the DI frowned. "When we picked you up after that pool incident, I suppose. Just…I mean he wasn't obvious about it then. Actually, come to think of it I don't think he really started trying to hide it until after that bollocks with H.O.U.N.D stuff, but that's probably because he didn't realise he was doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Staring at you." Greg met his eye. "Smiling. Dunno if you noticed, but he doesn't do it for everyone. Not _that_ smile, anyway. And you were always with him, but he stopped trying to push you away – that seriously didn't give you a clue?"

John downed another and refilled for a third.

"No." He rasped. "So…so…the snipers? Him…fucking jumping? Was he in lo…was he –"

It was probably the situation and the environment being a bad mix, but John was close to tears. It broke Greg's heart to see him like this again, but this time he had no idea how to begin to respond. How could he list _everything _like some sort of emotional sadist?

"Did he jump because of me? I mean, I _know _he did." He was slurring badly now. "The 'Three Bullets', but, I mean, all that? All what he did. We could've…could've done it together, but –"

"He didn't want you going after him."

John's eyes looked glassy black in the gloom.

"He – fuck," he chucked back his own drink, wincing as it seared his throat. "He did everything he could to stop them targeting you and then he didn't stop until they were gone."

"He went to hell and back." John clutched at the glass. "For me."

"_What did he say once_…'love is singularly the most cruel and irrational motivator'."

"Heh." It sounded more like he was choking. "He's hallucinating, you know?"

"What? Like when he says random things to the people inside his head?"

John gawped.

"He, um, used to do it at crime scenes when you weren't there."

"What do I do? Really. What?"

"Don't suppose you fancy going for him?"

"Greg!"

"Just…yeah, I'm sorry, worth a try."

"_I'm not gay!_ _I'm not!_"

"Yeah, I – where is he, I'll –"

"He's off somewhere."

Greg froze.

"What do you mean 'off somewhere'?"

"I mean he's gone and he's doing something for Mycroft."

The inspector hesitated for a single second before grabbing the bottle and glugging. _Because it was god-knows-O'clock and, fuck it, he was not dealing with this shit now. _Neither of them were in any state to keep it together long enough to get out the door, never mind convince Mycroft that letting a schizophrenic, PTSD, autistic, manic depressive loon with a phobia of intimacy running away from the love of his life participate in a life-threatening situation was a _bad idea._

For the first time, _for the very first time_, he _doubted._

* * *

**_A.N: Well, I came up with this of a good muse in an afternoon. On that note, I really hope it makes sense and that there aren't too many mistakes (or repeating myself, because I might just have done it with these multiple introspections). Rest assured, this is about the last of it, but I really wanted to manipulate the characters in a way that makes sense without sacrificing anything i.e that John was bisexual all along. That bugs just the slightest bit. Legit in some ways, but I just think this is a more interesting route instead of taking the easy solution._**

**_The title also rode along the muse's wave. All of them are from the original stories._**

**_I might point out at this point, also, that, for the sake of realism, not everything the characters say or believe is consistent or accurate when they are considering other people. Like...there is the scene that the narrator spins, then each of the characters see it slightly differently._**

**_As always, reviews are the highlight of any update and, yes, I'm working on other stuff, but since this is considerably shorter and I've gotten slightly stuck on the other one, I'd rather leave it until the holidays when i can devote my mind to not making canonical mistakes and providing quality work._**


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